


Will You Go on a Data With Me?

by zombie_socks



Series: E-Love [3]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dating, Online Dating, POV Natasha Romanov, dating bet, some language, steve is a good cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9722216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: After a series of bad dates, Natasha Romanov decides to skip the online scene and make her own dating equation. Using her calculations she finds a near perfect match in James Barnes. But her best friend, Steve Rogers, proposes an experiment and gives her Clint Barton's number. Pitting Math against Intuition, Natasha must decide if her heart or her brain will win out.Featuring texting, banter, Steve as a good friend (and a great cook), Star Wars references, and plenty of cameos.Endgame Clintasha. (Not to spoil it, but it's about the journey, right?)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part three of my E-Love series. It's a little off of theme, but I felt it could still slip in. 
> 
> Not abundantly happy with this piece, but I got it done on time, so that counts for something. Right?
> 
> Like I said, it's not the best. Nat's pretty OCC, it moves kind of fast. 
> 
> But thanks for reading!

“So what do you do?”

“I’m a programmer for SHIELD Data Security Firm. I make software that better protects big data projects by using our patented encryption software designed by Tony Stark.” I go ahead and answer the anticipated question, “Yes, that Tony Stark.”

He seems impressed, nodding along while he takes a sip of red wine – the cheapest bottle; I can tell he’s not all that invested in this date.

“Is he really that…grand?”

I raise a brow. “If by grand you mean grandiose, sure. But he’s not that bad a guy. And he’s a generous boss.”

“Oh yeah? How generous?”

Red flag. “Christmas bonus generous,” I answer, hoping to get him to stop, change the topic, before this goes down the road it’s looking to lead.

“To everyone or just you?”

Another red flag. “Are you suggesting something?”

He starts to backpedal. “No no, just… you know. He’s got a reputation with women and you certainly fit the bill.” He gestures, eyes too far down to meet my gaze.

 _Oh don’t look at my boobs, you animal. You’re already insulting me._ “He rewards hard work and street smarts. Besides, he’s married.”

“Hasn’t stopped men before…” He trails off.

 _Well at least you recognize you’ve made a mistake. But I’m done._ I start gathering up my bag and coat. He’s protesting but I don’t hear him. Third bad date of the month. For fuck’s sake, can’t I win?

“Enjoy the wine,” I toss over my shoulder. He’s still stuttering a bit and I catch a _bitch_ muttered under his breath. I want to stop and slap him, tell him that I’m not some sex prize to be won. But I fear the sentiment would be lost. And it’d be my luck he’d press assault charges for the slap.

Guess I’ll pick up some Chinese takeout and my own bottle of (better) wine. Bubble bath and _Agent Carter_ novel here I come.

Maybe it’s for the best. I have an early meeting tomorrow morning.

…

Steve Rogers is the human equivalent of a puppy. He’s chipper like a puppy. Active, happy, even resilient like a goddamn puppy. Add in the manners of a proper gentleman, the muscles of Adonis, and golden blonde hair, he’s the best catch of the office. The rub? He’s gay. Openly but not overtly: there’s a tasteful pride flag on his desk and he doesn’t shy away from discussing his dates with whatever man has caught his eye.

He’s also my best friend.

“How’d that date go last night?” he inquires, pulling up a chair at my break room table. The Chinese I ordered last night had been enough to get me some leftovers for today’s lunch.

“He insulted my intelligence, stared at my breasts, and tried to insinuate I slept with my boss.”

Steve raised a brow in disbelief. “Really?”

I put down my chopsticks. “Oh c’mon, Boy Scout, not all men are as polite as you.”

“Even so, that’s… that’s bad, Nat.”

“Tell me about it. I mean, is it really that hard to find decent men to date?”

“Have you thought about switching dating sites?” Steve takes a bite of his salad. There’s steak on it and I’m jealous because I know he’s grilled it himself. Suzy homemaker I am not which sadly leaves my cooking skills to cereal, takeout, and the occasional pot of spaghetti.

“I have actually. They’re all terrible.”

“Maybe you should take a look at your profile, change some things around?” He takes another bite and I push away my empty takeout box.

“Or maybe I should get a cat and call it quits.”

Steve frowns. “Don’t give up. You just need to be patient.”

I roll my eyes.

“I mean it, Nat.” His cell rings and he answers it unsurely as if it’s going to bite him. I can see his shoulders fall and his brow scrunch up. “Yes, Tony. Yes, I know. Okay. I’ll be there in five.” He hangs up and looks longingly at his salad. “Stark needs me to suit up and greet a potential client.” He sighs. “Want my salad?”

I grin and begin devouring it. God, that steak is amazing. “Have fun playing security guard,” I say with a mouthful.

“Good luck finding a better match.”

He leaves but his words linger behind like the savory taste of the steak salad in my mouth.

A better match…

That phrase and the constant bombardment of data and analytics got me thinking. I barely did my job for the rest of the day, only managing the minimum until five, and once home, I got to work.

…

When I was four, my mother died. Some disease, I never really knew which one; my father didn’t talk about it. Or her. Or if it was why we really left Russia to come to America. All I know is her name was Nika, she had red hair like mine, and she was fiercely independent. And smart.

I’ve been told I’m a lot like her. However, I got my obsessive organization habits from my father. Not inherited, mind you, but rather pounded and drilled into me through a strict schedule growing up. It’s served me well as a data analyst and programmer.

It’s currently serving me up a dating equation.

Fifty-two points of data, five categories – with subcategories – and twelve data markers. All weighted accordingly. I finish it off with Sigma, Σ, to give it professional merit. And ta-da! A dating algorithm tailored to my specific needs.

Next I log on to my dating profile, click around, found some guys I’m interested in, and start reducing them to numbers, data, figures. Candidate number one barely scores a forty out of a possible one hundred. Candidate number two fares better, scoring seventy-six. But it’s Mr. Number Three (tall, dark, handsome) that blows me away. Mr. Number Three scores ninety-eight.


	2. Chapter 2

“I present the future Mr. Romanov!”

Steve looks at me startled. He’d been halfway through a turkey and cheese sandwich (I see that extra mayo there, Boy Scout. Whatever will your strict, ab-showing diet say?) “I thought you said the dating site wasn’t working?”

“It wasn’t. That is until I refined my search.” I hand him a copy of my equation. “I sifted through profiles, rejecting ones that didn’t line up with my new criteria.”

“Good lord, Nat, there’s like three pages here!”

“Exactly. Mr. Right has a lot of standards to fill.”

“Standards? I had less requirements to join the army!”

I take a seat on the tabletop next to him, crossing my legs, smoothing my skirt. “Criticize all you want, but that formula got me a ninety-eight out of one hundred match.” I hand him my phone, Mr. Number Three’s profile (actual username JBuckyBarnes) pulled up. Steve whistles low, appreciatively.

“He agree to a date?”

I take back my phone. “Not yet, but I just messaged him last night. It says he’s self employed, translator; he might not be up yet.”

Steve shakes his head.

“What?” I demand.

He raises his hands. “Nothing. It’s your life.”

“You don’t think this is a good idea?”

“I never said that.”

“But you thought it.” I hop off the table pull up a chair. “What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s just…” he sighs. “Nat, you’ve reduced _people_ to numbers and stats and are expecting to find love in it.” He taps the paper copy of my equation. “Where’s the room for his soul?”

“Love is chemistry, Steve. Chemistry is science, math.”

“No love is…love. You can’t calculate it!”

“Yes I can.” My phone pings. I check it and grin triumphantly. “Ha. He messaged back.” I stand up. “Face it, Rogers, I’ve calculated my perfect man.” I leave, responding to JBuckyBarnes’s message as I go.

We text back and forth throughout the day. I find out his name is James, he’s two years older than me, he went to NYU and majored in International Studies with a minor in history, and he’s currently available for dinner Friday night.

I’m all but beaming at my turn in luck and stroke of genius by the time the day ends. I’ve got a date Friday with my perfect match and nothing’s going to stop me. Okay. Nothing except Steve Rogers lingering by my office at the end of the workday.

“Just hear me out,” he starts, following a step behind me as I finally stop to listen to whatever he’s going to say. He pulls out a slip of paper from his pants pocket and hands it over to me. On it in his neat script is a name and phone number. I raise a brow at him. “Clint? What is he? Eighty?”

“Maybe his dad was an Eastwood fan. Not the point.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “I know you think you’ve got this whole thing worked out, that you’ll meet this perfect guy and poof, magic, happily ever after. But I think you’re making a mistake. Not in being selective or even using your skills to find a guy. I think you’re forgetting that people are messy and usually don’t confine well to variables. Your ninety-seven-”

“-Ninety-eight.”

“-match is a number, Nat. A number you created.”

“From data and research and calculations-”

“Exactly! As of now it’s all been…”He moves his hands around vaguely, “math. Theoretical.”

“The data is solid.”

“Abstract then. There’s a lack of practical element.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “So what are you suggesting?”

“We do an experiment. You like science. You like data and research and information gathering.” He points to the paper scrap in my hand. “That’s a friend of mine. He’s a great guy, couple years out from a divorce and just getting back into the dating scene.”

“And?”

“And I think it’d be worth your time to date him and Mr. Ninety-Eight and compare the two.”

I purse my lips and run through his proposal. On one hand it’s nuts. It makes no sense to pursue another man when I have a near perfect match on the line. But I’m woman enough to admit my curiosity is piqued. And damn Rogers for throwing science at me.

“Okay, fine. But let’s make some rules. I go on three dates with each. At the end of the sixth date in total, I make my decision and you don’t get to say anything if and when you’re friend doesn’t get picked.”

“Fine.”

“I reserve the right to cancel future dates if something happens that makes me feel significantly uncomfortable.”

“No insinuating you fucked your married boss, got it.”

I roll my eyes but hide a grin. Steve’s All-American looks sometimes guild his Brooklyn-Boy upbringing. “And lastly, you make me lunch all of next week.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m agreeing to do this at all.”

He stares me down, arms crossed over his sinfully bulging pecs. “I’m not forcing you to do this, Nat. I simply suggested it.”

I raise a pointed brow.

He sighs exasperated. “Fine. I’ll make you lunch, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

I grin and stick out my hand. “Deal.”

Steve reaches to shake my hand but I pull it back.

“Don’t we have to spit in our palms first, Boy Scout?”

He sighs again and turns around, leaving while muttering about what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

I tuck the strip of paper into my pocket without much ceremony. I know I’ll need to call “Clint” but that can wait until after dinner. Tonight I’m thinking stroganoff from that little place two blocks east from here. Pietro and Wanda are always good fun and I think they’ll get a kick out of this situation I’ve put myself in. Plus they sell bottles of real vodka and the one I have at home is getting low.

…

It’s past eight when I finally get around to calling Clint Barton. I knock back another shot of vodka and settle in deeper to my couch. I put in his number and the other end of the line rings. The call connects and heavy background noise filters in for a moment before it dissipates and is replaced by a clear, deep, gruff, “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Clint Barton?”

“Uh…yeah. Who’s this?” The background noise makes a reappearance followed by some shuffling and then silence returns.

“I’m Natasha Romanov, Steve’s friend. He gave me your-”

“Oh! Right. Yeah. Um…glad you called.”

It has the intonation of a question without it really seeming like he’s asking one.

“Steve said you have a busy schedule,” he goes on, “so I was wondering if coffee would work better than dinner. Not that I would be opposed to dinner. I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m cheap, you know, taking coffee over dinner. But I thought maybe that’d be easier to fit in. To your schedule. Since you’re, you know, busy.”

 _My, the eloquence in this one is astounding. Real poet you picked there, Rogers_. “I can do coffee.”

“Great!”

I pull the phone back a bit at the sudden volume change.

“Um… so, uh, when would be good for you? I’m fine with whatever morning works best for you.”

A little eager but Steve did say he was getting back in the dating scene. _You get lunch out of this, Nat_. _And coffee._ “How about Monday, seven thirty, at Coffee in the Rye?”

“The one by campus?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sounds great. Great, good. Um… I’ll be there.”

“Okay. See you then.”

“Yep. Uh…bye?”

“Goodbye, Clint.” I hang up and lean my head back on the couch. My collector’s edition of the original _Star Wars_ trilogy stares back at me from the refurbished wood pallets serving as my TV stand. “Well, Han, much like you, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

…

Friday arrives and I finish work with just enough time to get home, get showered and dressed before hailing a cab to meet James for dinner. He’s picked out this little Italian place and swears by their meatballs. The scene from _Lady and the Tramp_ has been going through my head all day. Steve even caught me humming “Bella Notte” while I microwaved lunch.

The restaurant is done up in old Italian charm with stone figures and wooden beams and fairy lights and greenery. A fountain bubbles in the corner. The aroma floating on the wine-kissed air is rich and wholesome, filled with sharp tomatoes and soft bread, savory mozzarella and sweet coffee-cocoa dusted custard.

And there in candlelight is James Barnes.

He stands when I approach, his sports jacket falling in place around his incredibly trimmed figure. He greets me and smiles politely as he pulls out my chair before resuming his own seat.

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person,” he starts. “The site is great to find people but I prefer a face-to-face meeting.”

“Agreed,” I answer as the waiter comes to take our wine selection.

“So, Natasha, tell me more about yourself.”

It’s a classic line if a cheesy one. But the setting is making me a bit pliable so I give him my job description and educational background, where I grew up and that I did ballet all through my teen years. He nods and grins, comments occasionally. I ask about him in return and find out we grew up in similar households, he learned ballroom dancing from his mother (an instructor in her spare time as a night nurse) and we both took Cold War History seminars as electives in school.

We order our food, he the spaghetti and meatballs, I the ziti.

Our conversation turns to foreign travel and we find we’ve both been to Russia more times than we can count. His job takes him all over the globe, even more so, he points out, than his stint in the army. We talk about his service only briefly and he shows me his prosthetic arm. I get all excited because I led the project that stored and transferred the files containing the blueprints for prosthetic limbs like his.

By dessert we’re talking about favorite hiking spots out West. By the time we hail a cab, I’ve decided he’s perfect.


	3. Chapter 3

I spend the weekend texting James, doing laundry, making dinner, texting James, watching TV, doing yoga, texting James. It blows me away how many times I reply with _SAME_. We’re so alike. He’s living up extremely well to his ninety-eight score.

I’m tempted to cancel my coffee date with Clint and tell Steve he can suck it. But a deal’s a deal and the appeal of a Rogers prepared lunch three days next week is overwhelming.

And I’m also in this for the interest of science.

So I resign to trudge through my three dates with Steve’s desperate friend and then skip off into the sunset with James. I bet he’s good at skipping. He’s got the legs for it.

…

Monday rolls around and I get up early to catch my coffee appointment. (Calling it a date seems too…emotional. Chores aren’t emotional.) I don’t put extra time in to my hair or makeup, dressing only for work. This meeting is a courtesy, nothing more.

The coffee shop is busy and to save time I go ahead and order. I’m not early, but my “date” seems to be running late. I choose a table by the window and send him a text saying I’m in a purple blouse and have red hair. I don’t get a reply. I’m beginning to wonder if Clint’s stood me up when a man enters the shop and approaches my table.

“Natasha?” he asks.

I stand and nod. “You must be Clint.”

“Yeah. I’m…God, I’m so sorry. I’m late, I know. My dog got hurt last night so I had to take him to the vet and she wanted to keep him overnight, so I had to pick him up this morning and run him back to my place and traffic was…well New York traffic. I think a guy cursed my mother because I didn’t go the instant the light turned green. That or he yelled about sleeping with her. I didn’t quite hear.”

I sip my coffee and let him rant. He’s nervous; his whole demeanor spews discomfort, anxiety. I watch him swallow hard before I respond.

“Sounds like you’ve had quite a morning. And your poor mother.”

He laughs. It’s a nice laugh, throaty and resonate, genuine in a unique way that really reaches his eyes. He bobs his head to the side and draws his brows together as if conceiting a point. “Well, she’ll be okay. She’s dead.”

I blink.

He sighs and closes his eyes, regret crossing his features. He opens one eye. “Wow. Killed that mood, huh?”

I change the subject. “I went ahead and ordered.”

“Oh. Shit.” He looks over his shoulder at the lengthy line before the cash register. “I uh…I’ll get mine on the way out.” He looks back at me and manages a smile. “So you work with Steve?”

I nod, setting down my cup. “Although not directly. His business is with Stark. I work primarily with the parent company, SHIELD, but our paths cross since I report also to his boss.”

“Data security, right? My old employer used you guys to file away blueprints and permits and stuff. You know, the legal things.”

It’s a rarity that someone knows what SHIELD does. Most of the time I have to give examples and explain it in detail. I decide to award Barton a point for already having that knowledge.

“Steve mentioned you were a boss programmer. Did you pick that up as a kid or in college or…”

Okay, he gets another point for not making some stupid comment about working in a male dominated field. But his tardiness and my having to pay for my own coffee are still weighing the cons column down.

“I got into computers in high school. My MIT degree is such a disappointment to my father.”

“He want you to study something else?”

“Law, same as him. His heart was set on Harvard.”

“I would think MIT wouldn’t be nothing to a sneeze at, right?”

 _Double negative? Really?_ “I’m proud of it.” I take a drink. “What about you? You go to school here in New York?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I went to community college back in Iowa, got an associates in business.” He smirks. “I even use it sometimes.”

I don’t want to smile at that, but his lopsided grin and big blue-green eyes, flecked with gold, coupled with his untamed bedhead and sloppily undone scarf hanging over his navy blue coat at the wide shoulders suddenly gets to me. He’s cute in a rough around the edges way. He’s nowhere near the sculpted beauty of James, but he’s attractive in a _real_ way. Like that guy on the groom’s side at your cousin’s wedding who’s building a tower out of cheese cubes and pretzel sticks while waiting on the bridal party to arrive.

One minute ago I was ready to call this date the worst in my history. But one look and I find myself asking, “What for?”

He leans in just a bit. “I co-own a house renovating business with my brother.”

“How’d you get into that business?”

He pauses, looks hesitant. His fingers play with the napkin holder, twisting the corner of the paper napkin closest to him. “It’s a long story,” he permits. His demeanor changes as he switches subjects. “So what do you do when you’re not saving the world from pesky hackers and insider traders?”

I take another sip of my coffee, and set the nearly empty cup on the table. “I volunteer at a dance studio on Saturdays, teach ballet to teenagers.”

His brows rise. “That’s awesome. I didn’t know you danced.”

“I took lessons through high school, started teaching part time in college to help pay tuition.”

He’s got that pleasant smile plastered on his face. “Well that rules out asking you to go dancing. ‘Friad I wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

“Two left feet?” I ask him, finishing my coffee.

“Two right ones.” He holds up his left hand at my asking raised eyebrow. “Southpaw. Great for baseball. A pain for scissors.”

I laugh a little and casually check my phone; it’s almost time for me to leave. I watch a throng of college students filter in the door, leaving the entryway plugged. Looks like I’m staying for a few more minutes which is troublesome considering the lull we’ve found ourselves in.

“What’d’ya order?” He asks searchingly.

“Caramel macchiato.”

“I’ve heard those are good here. You know, not many people know about this place. How’d you find it?”

The crowd isn’t thinning much. One barista starts up the grinder while another steams milk. Mechanical whirring and crowd chatter almost cut off the end of his question.

“I had a friend who went to the university here. We’d come and get coffee all the time so she could rant about her classes and boyfriend and stuff. Must’ve helped because she graduated a semester early and married my boss.”

The din of the shop has only increased. Clint’s leaning in pretty close and his eyes keep dropping to my lips as I talk. _Just when I was warming up to him, he gets weird. This is our first date, dude. What do you want? I’m not kissing you!_

I’m frustrated now, a little disappointed. Maybe it’s the lingering irritation of my date the other night, or just frustration at the whole dating scene, but I gather my coat and gloves and empty coffee cup and start to push my way through the crowd. Clint’s following me asking what’s wrong.

It’s cold outside and he’s right behind me and I’m so done with dealing with men’s demands and other bullshit that I snap, “Couldn’t even wait until date two, huh?”

“What?” Pure confusion is etched on to his features. “For what?”

“For what?” I’m trying not to yell. “Is it too much to ask for a little eye contact? Are my lips _really_ that interesting that you can’t even be bothered to listen to what they’re saying?”

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa.” His hands are up and he’s shaking his head. “Hold up. I think we got a wire crossed here.” He puts a finger behind his ear and pulls it forward. I catch a glimpse of a piece of plastic and instantly feel like a total asshat. Shit. Shit, shit, shit!

”I’m eighty percent deaf,” he explains. “I don’t have my good pair of hearing aids in because I’m heading up to the job site later and don’t want to risk them getting damaged. And when the crowd got rowdy and the machines started going and you were talking I had to look at your lips to read them.”

“Clint, I…” I sigh, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve just… had some rotten luck lately, dating wise.”

He frowns sympathetically. “Yeah well, I could’ve been more up front about it.”

We stand there, both unsure of what to do or say next. I’m about to ask him if he just wants to call the whole thing quits when he speaks.

“Look, Natasha, I…I’m bad at this. Okay? The whole dating thing. Hell, I was bad at it seven years ago when I was doing it the first time around.” His eyes are edging on pleading. “And I know that you don’t owe me anything or whatever, but I, I think you’re interesting and smart and beautiful and just…I’d be thrilled, fucking _thrilled_ , if you gave me a second chance.”

I bow my head and try to avoid his too intense eyes. He’s so damn honest! And I find that refreshing but also daunting. I grew up with a certain degree of suspecting everyone and everything I come across. It’s what’s made me good at my job, but it strains social interaction. I believe that no one is who they say they are. And yet here’s a man providing me evidence to the contrary.

I have to agree if I still want my Rogers Lunch Special. But when I smile and say, “How about we start over?” I’m not just doing it for the free food or the sense of debt I’ve procured after misconstruing his intentions. I’m doing it because I’m genuinely curious to see how his second impression compares to his lackluster first. And I’m hoping to step up my game as well.

We agree to dinner at his place Saturday.

In the cab to work I send a text to James and make a date for Tuesday night. I beam at his offer to take me dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, pardon this piece's lack of finesse. I'd have loved to spend more time with it, get a better impression of certain things like Clint's hearing loss, James's characterization, etc. but I had a deadline and have been sick for the past four days, so take it as is or leave it, I guess. 
> 
> But again, thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

“How’d it go?” Steve asks presenting me with a container of lasagna.

“Which one?” I further, diving in to the free lunch. He’s even warmed it up for me, thoughtful man.

He sits down and tucks into his own dish of pasta. “Both, I guess?”

I swallow a bite and chase it with some water. “James was a perfect gentleman. He pulled out my chair, paid for dinner, and dropped me off at my apartment. We exchanged numbers and I’ve been texting him all weekend.”

Steve grunted. He tried to cover it by looking invested in his food, but I could tell this wasn’t the news he wanted.

“Clint and I got coffee this morning. Well, I got coffee; he ran late.”

“Yeah, I probably should’ve warned ya he’s bad with time.”

I go on, poking at my lasagna. “A head’s up that he’s Deaf would’ve been nice too.”

I immediately sense Steve go on the defense. His nostrils even flare a little. “And here I was thinking you’d be able to handle that. You know ableism is-”

“Relax, Steve, I’m not…” I sigh heavily. “Had I known I’d have suggested a different place, something quieter.” I take a drink, hesitating. “And I wouldn’t have looked like a total bitch when I yelled at him for staring at my lips.”

Steve winces. He drops his fork into his now empty pasta dish (he’s always been an insanely fast eater) and looks up at me, eyes softer now. “How’d that go?”

“We came to an agreement, but, God, Steve, I feel horrible. Mean.” I collapse my head into my hands. “I’m dreading Saturday.”

“Saturday? So you are seeing him again?”

“I felt bad. And it’s already kind of a pity date in the first place, so…”

Steve leans back in his chair. He looks tired. “Natasha, look, Clint’s been through a lot. And so have you. There are going to be some things to navigate.”

“You’re making this sound awfully long term.”

“Well even short term’s gonna have obstacles. What about Mr. Perfect? Surely there was some kind of flub up at some point.”

I think it over, taking another bite of pasta. “He did seem a little on edge talking about his military service. But he showed me his prosthetic arm so it’s not a huge discomfort for him. Right?”

Steve shrugs. “Some guys own it. Others can put on a mask, make you think it doesn’t bother them when it actually does. For all you know he went home and cried.”

“Please don’t make me feel any more guilty than I already do.”

Steve just bobs his head to the side and takes a drink of his protein shake. His musculature has a stricter maintenance routine than a military aircraft. “On the plus side you have experience around military men. You’re friends with me, Sam, Rhodey, and are dating two guys who have served.”

“Clint served?”

“He didn’t get to that?”

“Must’ve been a part of the ‘long story’ he skipped over.”

Steve finished off his shake in two gulps. “Like I said, he’s been through a lot.” He rinses out the shake bottle and puts it in the recycle. “Give him a fair shake, Nat. Text him like you do Mr. Perfect and be the same or at least a similar person when you’re out with him. You might find out you have more in common than you’re giving him credit for.”

I nod and go back to my lasagna as Steve leaves.

…

Although I appreciate Steve’s logic and acknowledge his sentiment behind it, I decide to consult a second opinion. And a third. And a forth.

It’s an odd group to have united in my phone’s messenger app, consisting of an astrophysicist, professional blogger, and CEO of a Fortune 500.

Pepper: I agree with Steve. It sounds like you should give this guy a chance.

Darcy: I don’t know. If Mr. Perfect is as his name describes, why waste your time?

Jane: I think finish out the dates as agreed. That way you’ll have evidence either way.

Darcy: But that’s only going to muddy things up. If you have a goal, go for it.

Pepper: Take it from the woman married to a man most people can’t stand in large doses. Give this guy a chance. It might surprise you.

Jane: Pep makes a good point. I’d never have pictured myself engaged to an actual prince.

Darcy: In title only. Asgard is a democratic principality.

Jane: Spoken like a true political scientist.

Pepper: Did you get the engagement gift Tony and I sent you?

Jane: Yes! Thanks so much! That self-cleaning lens system Tony designed is working amazingly on the telescope here. And Thor found the Breakfast Foods Elite club membership rather amusing.

Darcy: That sounds like an article I should be writing.

Jane: You have his number if you need direct quotes.

Pepper: I’m a member myself, Darcy.

Darcy: Oh yeah?

Pepper: Got to keep fresh ideas coming in for breakfast meetings.

Natasha: How come I never see any of those breakfast meetings?

Pepper: You work for SHIELD. Breakfast is an SI only deal. Of course you could come work for us directly…

Natasha: Not this again. Pep, you’re my friend and I love you. But if I’m to be on the receiving end of your client (and Tony) rants, then I think it best I remain unbiased.

Darcy: Do you love me too, Nat?

Natasha: Sure.

Darcy: Then give me first dibs on whoever doesn’t work out from your little experiment.

Natasha: [Has left the conversation]

…

After a long bath and a glass of wine, I decide to text Clint and give him his fair shake. **Do I need to bring anything Saturday?** I open with, figuring it’s pretty neutral ground.

A few moments pass before I get a reply. **Not that I can think of. And I kinda owe you dinner cuz of the whole coffee thing this a.m.**

The abbreviations are a little annoying, but I let it slide since my texts to Steve usually consist of emojis. No one is without sin, I suppose.

 **Do I get a hint about what we’re having?** I ask.

 **And ruin the surprise?** It’s followed almost immediately by, **U dont have any allergies do u?**

 **None that I can think of** , I reply. **At least not to food. Pollen can be a bother.**

**Guess I’ll cancel the 14 dozen roses I ordered.**

I’m not sure how to take it until another text follows that says, **kidding, btw. I’m terrible w plants. Any I manage to keep alive Lucky digs in anyway.**

**So not a greenhouse you live in?**

**LOL. Best I can offer is brown. But ur allergy wont be a problem so…**

I’m not sure what to say next. This kind of a lull would never happen with James. _Come on, Nat. There’s got to be something you two can talk about!_ I decide to go with a safe zone. **How was work? Everything okay at the site?**

There’s a long gap and I begin to think my message somehow offended him when I get a reply.

 **Sorry. Didnt hear my phone go off. Work was fine. The site’s holding together. We did a lot of the exterior this past summer so most of the work is inside for winter. Replastered a hallway. I wore a mask and still think I got a shit ton of the stuff up my nose.** There’s a pause before an additional message comes in. **How about u? Any WikiLeaks reports I should be aware of?**

**Not to my knowledge. Just a bunch of legals from Crossfire Industries.**

**Really? That’s where I worked. Before. Small world, huh?**

**I thought Crossfire dealt with technology patents?**

**They do.**

**Yet you worked construction for them?**

**No. Security. It was right after my stint in the army. I was looking for something to do. I got into remodeling when my brother got out of jail and HE was looking for something to do.**

I raised an eyebrow, his mention of working with his ex-con brother causing concern.

 **He held up a liquor store,** Barton messaged after a moment, followed by a string of texts:

**Not like murder or anything.**

**Not that I’m condoning it.**

**Just… he’s not like violent.**

**Desperate, sure.**

**But he’s learned.**

**He’s engaged now. Single mom, two kids. Premade fam.**

**I’m rambling. Please stop me.**

I comply with a simple, **Wow.** I’m thinking that I should’ve just called him. But he’s a fast texter and after a moment I realize that it’s probably easier for him to converse via messaging than trying to hear over the phone.

**Is that a bad wow?**

I put his mind at ease. **No. Just a lot to take in. You didn’t say much this morning so it’s strange to get so much out of you.**

**Texting is a lifesaver when u hav 85% hearing loss. In person works too. Lip reading. Sorry again about that.**

**Don’t apologize. It was my fault for jumping to conclusions.** I find the conversation falling by the way side again and feel bad for it. I’m ready to sign off for the night when I remember his reason for why he was late and inquire, **Is your dog okay? You mentioned he was injured.**

 **Lucky? Twisted his paw digging at something in the dog park. He lived up to his name and survived. : )** He paused between his next text. **Any pets? You strike me as a cat person.**

I consider this for a moment. On one hand he’s wrong; I am not a cat person, or any pet really. On the other, I do feed an alley cat a few times a week. He’s not my cat so much as a cat I just feed…and occasionally pet…and maybe have curl up on my lap while I sit on the fire escape. Don’t blame me, the animal is a good climber. He also likes cheese.

I concede with, **Cat person, maybe. Cat owner, no.**

**Not at all cryptic. I guess you can explain that better over dinner Sat.**

**Seven thirty, right?** I inquire.

**More or less. Those who know me allow +-20 min.**

**Do I fall in that category?** I ask as a gauge to both our relationship and when to arrive.

 **You do now.** He adds a smiley emoji with a few extra spaces between it and the punctuation as if it were tacked on as an afterthought.

 **Good to know,** I reply. **See you Saturday.**

**Bye, Natasha.**

I’m grateful he’s ended the conversation at my cue. I set my phone down and lean back on my couch, wine glass still in hand, forgotten until this moment. I down it in two goes, put it in the sink, and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Wine and mint mix on my tongue tasting too sharp to ignore easily. Then again my mind is in overdrive, going over every sentence, every nuance.

He seems to communicate better through text but still doesn’t offer much information about himself. His longest stream of data was about his brother. He talked about his dog. He asked about me.

It strikes me as odd that in both of my interactions with Clint Barton I’d learned nearly nothing about him. I know more from Steve talking about him. It just feels so…off. Like he’s avoiding something.

I spit in the sink and wash out my mouth before striding over to my laptop to remedy this once and for all. I need data. I need ammo and stats and facts if I’m going to survive Saturday. I open up my web browser and exercise my Googling skills.

There’s a lot of sifting; surprisingly Clint isn’t as rare a name as I thought. But it doesn’t take long before I’m into parts of this man’s life he’s yet to share through newspaper articles, records, social media sites, you name it.

What I found was more than interesting.

I’d started taking notes on a scrap piece of paper and had to switch to a small notebook. The results?

Clint Barton was a prodigy archer, going on to the Olympics at age seventeen. He proceeded to enter the military, did something with Special Ops and apparently was a sniper. He left there to work nighttime security at Crossfire Industries. The Barton Bros. home renovation website went online about a year later. And according to it, business wasn’t lacking. Clint and his brother were skilled home flippers.

I move to close my laptop when I catch sight of scribbles I’d made when working out my personal dating formula. I look at the notebook and back to the screen before deciding to crunch the numbers.

Using the data I’d found (and looking up some I didn’t – some of which I found, others I estimated) I calculate Barton’s score.

Sixty-four.

Out of one hundred.

I laugh. I laugh in a way that starts small and in the belly before spreading up my chest and down my legs and soon I’m laughing with my whole body, head bobbing, shoulders shaking, feet slipping on the floor.

A sixty-four and I’m supposed to go out with him two more times?

I’m tempted to call up Steve and let him know he owes me more lunch for this. But it’s late and the terms have already been set. So I crawl into bed still laughing.

I blame the laughter for why Clint showed up in my dreams that night.


	5. Chapter 5

“A sixty-four,” I state as Steve sits across from me at the break room table.

“Hmm?”

“Clint,” I clarify. “I ran the numbers and he scored a sixty-four out of one hundred, Steve.”

“So?” He takes a bite of his homemade parmesan chicken, forcing me to look upon my Lean Cuisine with distain.

“So James is a ninety-eight. Why am I wasting my time?”

Steve shrugs. “For science. We talked about this.”

I huff and pull out my notebook. “I did a little research on him last night.”

“Jesus, Nat! Why can’t you have a conversation with a guy like normal people?”

“Because he doesn’t talk about himself. All I’ve heard from him is about his work, his dog, or his brother.” I open the notebook. “Olympic archer, Spec Ops sniper, and other than a stint working security for some company, he seems to have led an interesting life.” I close the notebook with some force to get Steve’s attention. “Why not talk about this stuff? He won an Olympic gold medal!”

Steve’s very still, methodically chewing his food. He swallows and I watch his Adam’s apple bob with the motion. “You’ll have to ask him,” he supplies unhelpfully.

I sigh and take my lunch back with me to my cubicle. I check my phone to see that James and Clint have both texted me. James with a reference to a joke we’d made yesterday. Clint with a selfie of him wearing a white hardhat with a sticker on both sides that I recognize as the Barton Bros. logo. In the background is a red haired man with faded freckles and the same eyes as Clint; I assume this to be the other half of Barton Bros. The included caption reads: **we r working in the basement 2day. If something eats me tell Lucky I luv him.**

I actually grin at the photo. He’s got that lopsided smile I saw him wear at the coffee shop and it still does something to me on the inside.

I back out of his message and reply to James with the appropriate response to complete the joke. I set my phone down but hover my hand over it. That smile is still stuck in my brain.

I open his message again, reread the caption, stare at the image and that stupid smile, and finally reply: **Basements are notorious for man-eating monsters. Keep an eye out for any tentacles, claws, or feelers. Should you fail, I’ll alert Lucky to your spelled out affection.**

 **Thx.** He replies after a bit. **So far so good, but those things lie in wait, you know.**

**Strategic prowess is one of their evolutionary strengths.**

It’s a while before I hear back with, **On the plus side, we have a jack hammer and one hellova Coleman’s lantern.**

**That should keep them at bay.**

I don’t hear back from him until later than night with a simple **Lol.** I don’t look much at the message because James and I are messaging.

…

Tuesday night comes and James and I are going dancing at a little club down the block from his place.

He picks me up and I take time to admire his navy blue button down and black skinny jeans. His shoulder-length hair is secured at the back of his head in what Darcy has informed me is called a man-bun. He looks like one of those models you see advertising Air B&B or some kind of craft beer on Instagram.

He takes my coat when we get to the club and we squeeze through the throng of swaying bodies to reach the bar. I order vodka, neat, and James gets one of those craft beers he looks like he should be advertising.

We talk a little bit, but the point of the club isn’t to chat. It doesn’t take long for us to hit the dance floor. I’ve always loved music and dancing, the flow of it going through me. The ballet I teach on Saturdays has kept me in shape and tuned to the feeling, the sensation, of getting lost in the beat. James’s own training is evident. Although rooted in something as classical as ballroom, his style translates well to fit the EDM blaring through the club’s speakers.

By the time we’re out of breath and our alcohol buzz worn off, we meander to the level above the dance floor where tables line the railings offering a view of the club below. We order another round of drinks and are far enough away from the speakers to hear each other more clearly, making conversation possible.

“I like your earrings,” James mentions.

I touch them to try and figure out which ones I’m wearing. “Oh. Thanks. They were a gift from my friend, Pepper.” I take a drink of vodka. “I wore them to her wedding, actually.”

“Were you a bridesmaid?”

I nod. “Well, maid-of-honor, although mostly only in name. Pepper did all the planning. I was just there to organize the bachelorette party and buy all the booze. I think I held her bouquet? It was kind of blurry, to be honest.”

James chuckles and sips some more beer. I try not to stare at his lips curled around the neck of the bottle and fantasize on them.

“Of course,” I continue, “I wasn’t the only less than sober one. Her husband did the whole ceremony so severely hung over he didn’t take off his shades until Pepper walked down the aisle.”

James laughs again and even though it’s a very nice laugh, it lacks the reverb that Clint’s has. I shake him from my mind and focus back on James. “How about you?” I ask, “Any wedding experience?”

He nods and takes another slug of his beer. “An old army pal of mine tied the knot about a year ago. I was a groomsman, so no responsibilities. However, my accompanying bridesmaid was the one to catch the bouquet and seemed to get it in her head that I was part of her romantic future.”

I smile but internally I get a little jealous. I don’t like the idea of other girls drooling over James. I’ve been told I lean towards being a possessive lover.

We turn the conversation towards other things and finish off some more drinks and an order of pretzels and beer cheese, when I spot a familiar face out of the corner of my eye.

“Steve?”

The blonde turns and sure enough Steve Rogers is there, glass of water in hand, and a stunned expression on his face. “Hi, Nat.”

“You here with someone?” I ask, indicating the water in his hand.

“A few of the guys from my unit were in town.” He holds up the water. “I relegated myself to be the DD.”

“That’s thoughtful,” James chimes in. Steve’s gaze goes to the speaker and I see a glint of appreciation come to his eyes. I frown a little at the stunning smile that comes to Steve’s stupidly attractive pink lips.

“You must be James,” Steve deduces.

“Guilty.”

“I’m Steve.” He reaches out and shakes hands with James, staring just a little too long to be polite eye contact.

“I work with Steve,” I add, redirecting their attention.

“Ah,” James acknowledges. He looks back at Steve and gives him a smile.

Steve grins back, the slightest pink tingeing his cheeks. “I should go. Those pals of mine will be looking to start trouble this many drinks in.”

He leaves but not without making a point to say goodbye to James and me individually, I as the afterthought. He adds, “See ya tomorrow,” as if he just realized the fact for himself.

James comments that Steve seems nice and I agree before eagerly suggesting we go back to dancing. I plan to keep Steve away from James, and if I get to do so by grinding on him, then win-win. Right?

…

“What the hell was that?” I demand even as Rogers offers me my Wednesday spoils, a hearty homemade vegetable soup, steaming fresh in an actual bowl and not plastic storage container. The slice of fresh-baked, buttered bread on the side is making my mouth water as much as my blood boil. Damn that man’s cooking skills.

“I’m sorry. Okay? I totally ogled your date and that was rude of me.” He sits across from me and pulls out a thermos. “But if you forgive me, I’ll give you this.” He opens up the lid and steam rolls out. Inside is rich, thick, hot chocolate, almost black in its cocoa content, and piping hot.

I decide to let my jealously wane. James is an attractive man. And the make out session we’d had in the cab on the way home assuaged any damage done on Steve’s end.

“Fine,” I conceit and take the thermos, capping the lid to save it for later. “I forgive you.”

Steve smiles but not to where it’s touching his eyes. He clears his throat and digs into his own bowl of soup. “So, uh, how was the rest of the date?”

“Good. We danced some more. Made out in the cab.”

Steve hums distantly.

“What?”

He looks at me, confused.

“You’re withholding something. Spit it out, Rogers.”

He seems uncomfortable as he sets down his spoon and dabs at his mouth with his napkin. “Nothing. Just…”

“Just?”

“I don’t know, Nat. I just kind of got the impression he was… hiding something.”

“Oh yeah? Like what, Steve?” I can’t help the edge in my voice.

Steve shrugs. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

I roll my eyes. “Are you sure it has nothing to do with you gawking at him? Or are you just trying to chase him off so I’ll focus more on your desperate friend?”

“That’s mean and unfair, Nat, and you know it.”

“You’re not denying it.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “You really think I’d push like that?”

“Why the warning then?”

“I’m simply trying to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

“Well I can handle myself, Rogers. I have for years, in case you haven’t noticed.” I take my soup bowl and thermos and leave the break room.

I shut off my phone and ignore all the messages that come in. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not James, not Clint, and definitely not Steve.

Because his words start working me over.

Too good to be true James would of course be hiding something. I had to Google Clint to get any info on him. And now Steve…

I shut it all out and run diagnostics and security checks. I email Fury and give him the results. I message Scott Lang to go over a server that’s throwing up an error message. I do anything and everything to ignore the voice in my head telling me that Steve just may in fact be right.


	6. Chapter 6

I’m sitting with the alley cat on my lap. I don’t admit to myself that I’ve taken to calling her Liho. You know what they say about black cats and all. Bad luck seems to fit. Bad luck seems to be more interested in the cheese I’d slipped her than my petting. But the animal stays in my lap and eventually even starts to purr.

The conversation I had with Clint the other night about pets circles around in my mind. I still don’t claim ownership of the cat, but perhaps I am more of a cat person than I originally thought. I envy their simplicity if anything.

I’d texted my Women in Power entourage and they all said play it safe but don’t stop. It’s such a fine line.

I think about Clint again because Steve had said he was divorced and I wonder what it was that ended the relationship. Was it something one of them was hiding? Maybe they hadn’t played it safe? Maybe they should’ve stopped.

My algorithm has a section for past relationships. It’s a simple yes or no checkbox and weighs in at three points. I want a man with some history, experience. I’d subtracted a point from Clint’s score in that section since his history included a previous marriage. That’s extra baggage. I don’t want baggage, not when I have enough of my own.  

But now I’m not so sure. Maybe his baggage taught him some things, about women, love, life. I decide to add the point back in. A sixty-five. It’s still too low to even normally consider.

Liho jumps off my lap to chase at something down the fire escape steps. I’m still not sure how she gets up here, but I like that she does. Nothing stops her from her goal.

I resolve to take a page from her book, assuming cats have books, that is.  

 **Thanks for the date last night,** I text James. **I had a lot of fun.**

I don’t get a response back and have to fight the disappointment that floods me. I set my phone down and look up at the light-polluted sky. Why is this all so complicated?

My phone goes off and I eagerly look at the text.

**Pleez tell my bro yellow is not an appropriate bathroom color.**

It’s from Clint. I’m tempted to fling my phone up into the air and let gravity have it when I’m struck with the image of this horrendously yellow bathroom: yellow walls, yellow porcelain tub, yellow towels, yellow sinks.

I laugh at it. I laugh because this piss colored nightmare is the only thing that has made sense all day and I’m so grateful for it.

 **Who says,** I reply. **Why, I can’t think of a greater color. Maybe puke green accents would really make it pop.**

**Only if you balance it with constipated brown countertops and tiling.**

And now I’m cackling so hard I can feel my abs protesting. This horrible bathroom with its body-function inspired color scheme has grossly made my night. I’m not sure what that says about me, but as Clint and I muck up this poor water closet with increasingly disgusting choices, I find that I couldn’t care less.

I’m still snickering as I go to bed. The notebook with my equation in it is on my bedside table and I pick it up. Under the section for humor I add a few more points to Clint’s score.

Sixty-nine.

That only sends me giggling more.

…

For the first time in a long time I’m nervous for a date.

I don’t know what it is exactly about this particular date that has my heart pounding and my hand avoiding knocking on the door. I wonder if I even _should_ knock, if Clint will hear it. I’m not sure what to do if we get into another conversation lull. I don’t know what we’re eating or if I’ll like it. I don’t-

The door opens and Clint’s standing there in a grey Henley and worn, faded blue jeans, a smile on his face. “I saw your shadow hovering outside the door,” he explains. He opens his door wider and steps back. “You can come in when you’re ready.”

I roll my eyes – mostly at myself – and step through the threshold. I hang my coat up on a hook beside the door and take in the space. It’s a two-story loft, open floor plan, and done mostly in greys, purples, and exposed brick. The kitchen, living space, and what I assume is the bathroom are on the first floor, bedroom up the flight of metal stairs. A set of train tracks is visible through the twin, ancient windows.

The air is filled with the aroma of something savory and upon further investigation into the kitchen I notice roasted potatoes, steamed broccoli, and fluffy biscuits. Clint’s bend over the oven, pulling out a roast.

“I’m impressed,” I say, leaning against the counter.

Clint smirks as he takes out the roast and lets it cool atop the stove. “Many a Thanksgiving alone can make anyone a decent cook.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Also my ex was rubbish in the kitchen. I’m the only reason we didn’t starve.”

He pours two glasses of wine and hands me one, a strong Bordeaux.

Clint begins hauling the dishes over to a table that’s seen better days but has candles and a single rose vase on it. I like that look, rough on the edges but sweet in the center; it fits Clint. I take the towel-lined basket of biscuits over to the table, wine in my other hand. I set the items down on the table before being suddenly startled by scratching at the bathroom door.

Clint shakes his head at the closed structure. “It’s just Lucky protesting not being part of the activities. He’s got food, water, his bed, and like, three toys in there, but it’s not enough. The mutt’s a professional moocher.”

“He locked in there the whole night?” A note of disappointment makes its way into my voice. I was kind of looking forward to meeting the dog who makes Clint smile every time he talks about him.

“Of course not. Just until we’re done eating.”

“And if I need to use his temporary dog house?”

“There’s a second bathroom upstairs.”

I raise a brow. “One bed, two bath, in New York? You must be doing pretty well in your renovation business.”

He chuckles. “Well, that’s not hurting. But I got this place in a pretty sweet deal. Those tracks out there aren’t exactly quiet at night.”

“You don’t mind the noise?”

He grins and pushes his ear forward so I can see the plastic in it. “I give my hearing the night off.”  

I nod, biting my lip and hoping he doesn’t hold it against me.

“You hungry?” He inquires, thankfully changing the subject.

“Absolutely.”

We sit and plate up his delectable dinner. He’s brought over the bottle of wine and doesn’t skimp on my refill. The food’s amazing, tasting of rich, hearty flavors, and it fills me up far more than the can of Campbell’s soup I had for lunch.

We talk about his renovation business, bringing up the bathroom and basement monsters we’d joked about. I end up telling him I named the alley cat. He likes the name Liho and repeats it to himself a few times to lock it in. Lucky paws at the bathroom door a few times during dinner, causing Clint’s face to drop in concern. When we’re about finished eating, he lets the dog loose.

Lucky, it turns out, is a tawny mutt with one eye and a dressing on his recently injured paw. He’s licking Clint’s face, no doubt going after traces of roast and gravy, and Clint’s more than happy to rub at the animal’s ears.

Lucky eventually breaks away to investigate the newcomer to his territory. He barks once or twice and I feel my heart pick up speed. I didn’t realize it, but now I’m worried the dog won’t like me. He sniffs around at my feet for a moment before I offer up my hand and let him have a smell. It’s not long after that I reach out and pet him on the head.

“He’s pretty friendly,” Clint interjects, “but can be picky. I’m glad he likes you.”

I’m glad too. If I’d have failed the “man’s best friend” test, I’d have called off the rest of the evening.

I still don’t know what’s got me so nervous.

We eat dessert in the kitchen over one of the counters. It’s an apple pie and when I ask if it’s homemade, Clint hesitates. He sighs after a second and admits, “Sadly no. This one I bought.” He takes another bite of his slice. “I’ve never made a successful pie and thought I shouldn’t push my luck.”

I nod with a small smile on my lips. “It’s good pie, though.”

“Thanks. Marie Calendar made it.”

“I’m not much of a cook,” I reply. “Meaning I’m well acquainted with her frozen work.”

He barks a laugh, the one that resonates in a way that James’s doesn’t. I like that laugh.

The bad news is it gets me all emotional.

“Can I be honest for a sec?” I ask, cutting off another bite of my pie.

“Go for it.”

“I Googled you.”

He raises a brow before resuming chewing his pie. “You Googled me?”

“Yeah, I… just didn’t feel like you talked about yourself a lot, and I didn’t know much about you-”

“-Isn’t that the point of dating?”

“Yes, but… I mean… I was coming to your place with no data. I didn’t know if you were secretly an ax murderer or something?”

“Did I seem like one?”

“They never do.”

He takes another bite of pie, nodding. “Fair point.” I wait for him to swallow. “What’d you find out?”

It’s a just question. I fill him in on my findings. “Olympic archer, Spec Ops sniper, security guard, self-employed. Oh, and Steve mentioned you were divorced.”

“That’s it?”

I tilt my head. “You’re more than welcome to share more.”

He finishes his pie, rinses off the plate, and turns back towards me. “What do you want to know?”

I scrape up the remaining pieces on my plate and eat them. He takes the dish and gives it the same treatment he’d given his. “Why only one Olympic season? You won gold. Why stop?”

“Car accident hurt my shoulder three days before the finals. The doctors told me I had two options: either forfeit the Olympics and get the surgery I needed and try again next season, or go for the gold and complete this season and risk permanent damage, possibly to the point of never shooting professionally again.”

“You went with the latter.”

“I don’t regret it. I got my gold medal.” He points to the living area where a bow hangs above his couch. A shadow box sits between the arch and the string, boasting his win. “I still shoot, just for myself.”

I smile but feel a little sad at his misfortune. From what I’d read, he had a very promising career in archery. “And the military?”

He points to his ears. “IED. Sent me home early. Got a medal for that too.” He doesn’t point anywhere so I assume it’s not displayed like his Olympic prize. “Got a shrapnel scar on my shoulder.” He huffs a laugh. “Ended up getting that surgery after all.”

I keep going down the list. “Crossfire Technologies?”

He took a drink of his wine. “You forgot the married part.”

“You were married before Crossfire?”

“During, actually. We met in the service. Whirlwind romance and all that. The whole thing was up and over in less than two years, dating, marriage, and divorce.” He drinks a little more. “We were both lonely, I think. In a transitioning time in our lives and needed some kind of stability.” He pauses and looks at his wine glass. “I don’t regret that either. It got Bobbi where she needed to go and find the man she’s supposed to be with.”

“You still talk to her?”

“Only once in awhile. She’s in London, now. But we send Christmas cards.” He hesitates before asking, “Does that bother you?”

I shake my head but stop. I look down, not exactly proud of what I really think. “Maybe a little. I’ve been told I’m the jealous, possessive type.”

“Ain’t no crime in liking to know what’s yours.”

I raise a brow but move on, not wanting to strain the conversation. “So Crossfire?”  

He continues, happy for the change in topic. “Security worked well with my training. But it was boring. Not much to look at. So I said yes when Barney called me up about our own business.”

Lucky has found us in the kitchen and begins begging for pie. Clint shakes his head, but rubs at the dog’s ears in exchange.

“Is he your only sibling?”

“Yeah. It’s just us, now. Ma and Dad died when we were kids. Ma’s friend from college raised us.” He jerks a thumb back to the living area with a grin. “Good ole’ Phil Coulson got me hooked on _Star Wars_.”

I follow his pointing to see a poster hanging on the wall in a frame, a cluster of smaller frames around it. I leave the kitchen to inspect the set up closer, Clint right behind me. The poster’s a copy of the original _A New Hope_ design. The smaller frames contain cast signatures.

“Where’d you get theses?”

Clint beams. “Been collecting since I was a teenager.” He points to Hamill’s. “Got his at the Olympics; he came to watch the opening ceremony and I hunted him down afterwards. Carrie’s I got at a convention. Great gal. I met James Earl Jones in an airport going back from leave one weekend. It made flying back to the Middle East easier. Mayhew and Baker I bought online in a steal.” He pauses, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Only one I’m missing is Harrison.”

“You should follow him on Twitter, find out if he’s going to be in the city some time.”

Clint shakes his head. “Not big on the whole social media thing. If I wanted the world to know what I was up to I’d buy a megaphone and fly a helicopter around.”

“Can you fly one?”

“Sure can. Got a few lessons over there. I’d need a license, though.”

“Well then you can get the license; I’ll get the megaphone.”

He laughs, that amazing sound reverberating deep in his bones and into the walls. I have to look away for fear of getting caught in his stupidly blue eyes. His stupid _Star Wars_ loving blue eyes.

I love that he loves _Star Wars_. I love that he has a poster in his living room and a collection of signatures. I love that my collector’s edition is back home proudly displayed in almost the same spot that I can see his is.

The common interests subsection of my equation gets a few more points. Seventy-four. In less than a week Clint’s score has gone up ten points. I find that I’m curious to see if that becomes a trend.

“It’s snowing,” Clint observes, looking out the windows at the railroad tracks. I watch a glint come to his eye and a smile curl up his lips. “Grab your coat.”

He’s by the door, stuffing his arms through his own winter gear before I have a chance to catch up. He holds my jacket for me as I put it on, pulling my gloves and hat from the pockets. He takes my hand and leads me to a set of concrete stairs at the end of his building’s hallway. We go up a flight and pop out on the roof.

The view is stunning. Soft flakes swirl around on the air, tinged yellow and blue from the lights above and below. The ghostly outline of a near full moon peeks out from behind the clouds. The noise of the city is noticeably hushed from the weather and the altitude. A gentle breeze brings the smell of street food and oil to the rooftop.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Clint asks.

Snow’s starting to accumulate on the ledge of the roof, on the top of the doorway that led us here, on the dome of the water tower on the roof across from ours. It looks like lace, like sugar. A spun candyfloss topping on the grime of the city.

“Yeah,” I breathe, watching the word puff into a cloud before me.

We stand there for some unknown amount of time, lost in the vision of thick flakes coating the world like icing. At some point Clint takes my hand in his. I let him. Because for some reason that one point of contact filters away any bite of cold, any distant recollection of my upbringing before the US, any childhood trauma involving a redheaded woman I’ve been told I look like.

I’m abruptly pulled from my reverie by a blast of ice in the face and Clint howling with laughter. I narrow my eyes. “Oh you asked for it,” I challenge even while a smile comes to my snowball coated features.

I roll up a perfect mound of snow and launch it at him, aiming for his face and getting his heck. He gasps at the temperature but already has another snowball ready to go. He hits me on the chin and I glare at him.

“Olympic archer, remember,” he taunts. “I never miss.”

“This is war, Barton.” I launch at him, knocking him down to the roof’s snow-covered surface, and begin stuffing handfuls down his coat. We’re both laughing and gasping for air. He somehow manages to just barely get ahold of my waist and flip us over.

He stops.

I stop.  

He leans in, I lean up.

I’m laying in snow, in cold, frigid flakes. But where our lips have met, I feel nothing but _warmth_.

Clint gently pulls away, eyes opening and looking wild. “Tasha,” he whispers.

I look up at him, caught in those blue eyes.

“Thanks for giving me a chance.”

I close the gap and kiss him again.


	7. Chapter 7

“I have a dilemma,” I complain to Steve.

He sets his fresh mug of coffee on the table and sits across from me. “Go on.”

“I reevaluated both James and Clint.” I take a breath. “They’re two points away from a tie.”

“James still in the lead?”

I nod. “And with only one date left with both of them, I’m not sure what to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think I can decide.”

“Can’t or don’t want to?”

“I… I don’t know!” I groan and collapse my head on the table. “This wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. The science was there. My equation has lied to me.”

“Dramatic much?” Steve takes a sip of coffee, frowning at its too-hot temperature. “Let me ask you, Nat, does your algorithm measure compatibility or similarity? Because from what I’ve observed, your numbers are based how closely a candidate fit to your idealized version of a human being, not how well you’d get along together.”

I glare at him and he knows it means I know he’s right.

“I told you there was no room in your math for someone’s soul.” He stands up, taking his mug with him. “Go on those last dates, run the numbers again if you feel like it. But just know this, there’s nothing wrong with letting your heart pick something for once. Your brain does enough deciding.”

…

**There’s a Star Wars marathon playing at a local theater. Wanna go?**

I text Clint back, **Only if we skip the prequels.**

**Agreed. But problem is seating will prob run out. How bout we catch #3, poke fun at the dialogue, and still have our good seats for 4-6?**

**Acceptable plan. I’ll get the candy and popcorn if you get the tickets.**

**Done.**

“Who you talking to?” James asks from beside me in the cab.

“Oh, a friend of mine. We’re planning to catch a Star Wars marathon.”

James has his brows narrowed just a bit. I think he’s going to ask me about my “friend” when he frowns and states, “I’ve never been much of a Star Wars fan.”

“What!”

He shrugs. “More of a Trek guy. More science, less space magic.”

“But that’s the whole point. It’s a space opera, a fantasy set in a universe far far a-”

“Away, I know.” He gives me an odd look, like he’s on the verge of something. “Is this a deal breaker?”

I pretend to think it over but then shake my head. James doesn’t look all that relieved.

The cab goes quiet. Our usual easy conversation is off tonight, stilted in a way it has yet to be. I’m not sure if it’s my fault. My jumbled up feelings having been reeking havoc with my thought processes. I keep thinking about Clint and that kiss on the roof. It doesn’t make sense! He’s a sixty-four, well now an eighty-one, but still. He’s not at all what I expected to fall for.

That thought makes me nearly panic. Have I really fallen for Clint?

I glance at my phone wishing it would display a text from him. We’ve been talking all week, bantering back and forth, telling jokes, revealing secrets. I’ve gotten to know him more in the past week and a half than I think I have any other man in my life. Well, except maybe Steve, but he shares a lot.

I’ve chatted with James too, but it’s been… off. Ever since that night in the club we’ve never quite been on the same page. And after his confession about _Star Wars_ , he looses another two points. Eighty-one.

Shit. They’re tied.

“It’s not Steve is it?” James inquires, voice tight.

“Hmm?”

“That wants to go see Star Wars with you,” he clarifies.

“No…” I turn to him, his face striped with light as we pass under streetlights. “Why? Would it matter if it was?”

James narrows his brows again. “So you two aren’t…”

“Hell no, James. He’s a friend, a colleague, coworker. I’ve known him for years. And even if I were interested, he’s gay.”

“Oh.” A strange new look graces his features, tingeing them in something I don’t recognize. There’s relief there and sadness and something else entirely. I’m just getting a lock on it when he covers it up with a grin. “I’m sorry for doubting you.”

I wave it off.

The cab plunges into silence again.

Our date is at a little café that’s hosting a local musician, a friend of a friend of James’s. The music is good and the coffee is great, but there’s a tension between James and I that I just can’t shake.

He goes up after the show to talk to the artist, a young woman he calls Daisy. Or was it Skye? I think one is her stage name.

We catch a cab back to my place, not interacting much except for him asking me if I enjoyed the show. We get out of the cab and up to my door before it happens.

“Natasha,” James starts.

I turn away from putting my key in the lock to face him.

“I need to talk to you. And… and this won’t be easy to hear, but I need to say it. Okay?”

“Okay.” I reply cautiously. I motion at my door. “Do you want to come in?”

He hesitates but then nods. I open the door, set down my keys and indicate the small living area for us to both sit. He takes a moment, collecting his thoughts, then heaves a sigh. “I need you to understand something.”

I stay silent, waiting for him to continue.

“You know how I grew up, the atmosphere, right? The pressure to do everything according to how my parents wanted it.”

“Like my dad.”

“Right. So when I tell you there was pressure for me to have a date for their annual Valentine’s Day Gala, you understand that I mean _pressure._ Real, daunting, crushing _pressure._ ”

I nod.

“Okay.” He takes another deep breath. “Natasha, I… I’m gay.”

I’m shocked. A thousand thoughts run through my mind and pieces start falling into place. “Oh,” I manage.

“Please, I never meant to hurt you, or lie to you. I just… I thought I could get a date for this gala, shut my parents up for another year, and go back to trying to find… Anyway, it was selfish of me. And I couldn’t go through with it.” He faces me, eyes pleading. “Please forgive me.”

I’m not sure if it’s a sudden burst of realization or relief or a combination of the two, but I start to laugh. I cover my mouth with my hand but it doesn’t stop and I can see that James looks concerned.

“Oh, James,” I begin. “Thank God.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I… I’ve been dating this other guy, but as part of like this science experiment, and,” I shake my head, “I can’t explain it. It doesn’t make sense to me, but… but I _like_ him. I like him and his dog with the one eye, and how he’s been around the world and done so many different things. I like that he’s got his past in objects and things around his walls and isn’t ashamed of them even if they represent hard choices and dark times. I like that he sees the good they brought him too. I like that we can go from holding hands and watching it snow to nailing each other in the face with snowballs in like two seconds. I like that he admitted he was bad at the dating thing up front. I like that he’s trying. I like that he’s had the strength to try so many things, to get back up from so many knockdowns. I like that because it gives me hope to do the same. And I like… I like _him._  

James is smiling by now, his eyes a little shiny. “Nat,” he sighs, grin still on his face and getting wider. “What the hell are you still talking to me for? Call him! Call him and tell him everything you just told me.”

“You really think so?”

“He deserves to know, Natasha. Hell, if I was on the other end of that, I’d want to hear it ASAP.”

I grab at my phone to tell him when I remember, “He’s Deaf. Phones calls are… And I can’t do this in a text.”

“Then let’s go!”

He stands up, ushering me to the door.

I grab my coat and keys and am locking up my apartment when I falter. “James, I can’t. This is ridiculous. His numbers in my equation were-”

“What equation? You know what, doesn’t matter.” He places his hands on my shoulders. “Natasha, I’ve been waiting three dates now to get something real from you. Every time we were out, I felt like you were putting up a front or a mask or whatever. You were always just a little too perfect. There was never an argument. And then tonight I could barely talk to you and I kept thinking it was something I’d done or that you’d somehow found out. There was a wall to add to the mask and then BAM! You go and confess what you did and, Nat, if you don’t go right now and tell this man how you feel, you’ll be wasting precious time. And believe me, that’s a treasured commodity.”

I kiss his cheek. “Thank you, James.”

“Let’s go.”

It’s a blur. My heart is racing faster than the taxi; James had told the driver to step on it. The streetlamps flicker by. Snow starts to fall, flakes hovering in the sky and blowing by with the cab’s dynamics. James holds my hand when he sees it shaking.

We get to Clint’s building and I’m suddenly at a loss.

What do I say?

James nods towards the closed door. “You can do this.”

I take a deep breath and knock.

The door opens. To reveal a dark haired, young woman in a purple tank top. I frown. “I’m looking for Clint.”

The woman assesses me, looking up and down for a moment before giving James a similar treatment. “You’ve got to be Natasha.”

I nod, unsure of who she is and trying really hard not to jump to conclusions.

“I’m Kate, Clint’s archery student. Well, former student.”

“I’m James. A friend.”

I turn back to Kate. “Clint’s not here?”

“No. He went to spend the weekend with Phil in Wisconsin. I’m here dog sitting. He’ll be back Tuesday. Do you want me to give him a message?”

I shake my head. “No. That’s fine. I’ll catch him when he gets back.” I turn to leave when Kate calls, “He’s been really happy lately. I get the feeling that’s because of you.” She closes the door.

“Can you wait until Monday?” James inquires.

I go to say yes, have it on the tip of my tongue when I stop.

Tuesday is Valentine’s Day.

It’s like a wall, an idea hits so hard and forceful that it nearly leaves me breathless. I pull out my phone, hit my Twitter app, and search for one name. “James, I begin, “how would you feel about driving down to D.C. tonight?”

“Great but I don’t have a car.”

I give him a sly smile. “I know someone who does.”

…

Steve opens his door with a groan. “Couldn’t wait until- Oh. Hi.” He gives James a rather obvious once over.

“Steve, this is James, but you already know that. Anyway, he’s gay and recently single, and your first date just so happens to be driving me down to D.C.”

“What? And when?”

“Right now,” James chimes in.

Sam Wilson, army friend of Steve’s, comes to the door. “We doing poker or what? Oh, hi, Nat. And-”

“James,” he fills in.

“Does it have to be now?” Steve asks. “I mean, not that I don’t want to go on a date with you; I’d love to. But D.C.? And now?”

“Steve,” I get his attention. “You were right. And because you were right I need to get to D.C. right away.”

Steve sighs and turns back to his apartment. “Sorry, fellas, emergency.” Groans and complaints echo from the space and even Wilson looks a little offended.

“Can I come?” Sam asks.

I exchange a look with Steve. “Why not,” I acquiesce.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s Tuesday and I’m standing in front of Clint Barton’s door. I knock, pulling in a breath and holding it until I hear him shuffling on the other side.

“Tasha?” he asks surprised when he opens the door. He looks a bit nervous. “Did we have something planned? I wasn’t sure, with the holiday and all, but, you know, we hadn’t been seeing each other very long, and-”

I cut him off by holding out the small box wrapped in shiny purple paper I’d been holding behind my back. “I got you something.”

Clint looks stunned before rubbing at the back of his neck. “I didn’t… like I said, I wasn’t sure… I mean, Kate said you stopped by, but then I didn’t hear from you all weekend, and I guess I just assumed… that you were…ending things. Shit. Nat-”

“Just open it.”

He takes the box and undoes the paper carefully, methodically, as if the gift inside is a bomb. He pulls away the gift box lid and I watch with a broad smile as it dawns on him what he’s holding.

“Oh my God, Natasha!” His eyes are wide, his jaw on the floor. “Tasha, I…” He shakes his head, amazed, shocked, overwhelmed. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s a long story,” I answer.

He’s still trying to catch his breath when he offers, “Wanna come in to tell it? I made brownies.”

“I’d love to.”

I take off my coat and meet him in his living room. He hands me a plate of brownies with fudge icing and red sprinkles on top. “I added them for Valentine’s Day,” he explains.

I take a brownie and he picks up his present, still struggling to let it sink in. “So how did you get this?”

“Like I said, it’s a long story, one that starts with me making my own dating equation because I was fed up with online sites, and ends with an impromptu trip to D.C. in Steve’s VW Beetle with Sam at the wheel and Steve in the backseat with the guy I’d been on a date with two hours prior.”

“What?”

I sigh and start from the beginning, telling him about James and the deal I made with Steve, about how I was hasty and jumped to conclusions about him only to have them bite me in the ass, about how it turns out Mr. Perfect wasn’t all that perfect, for me anyway. And the more I got to know Clint, the more the math began to fall apart.

“So then on Friday I realized I needed to tell you and came here only to find out you were gone. And then Kate said you were visiting Phil and I didn’t want to interrupt your time with him. And, I don’t know, it just sort of hit me, with you coming back on Tuesday and it being Valentine’s Day, I just had to get this for you.

“So I rounded up Steve and Sam tagged along and James was still with me, so we piled into Steve’s car and drove down to D.C. and I made a complete ass of myself in front of Harrison Ford outside his hotel room to get his signature, but it was worth it. Because you’re worth it.” I move closer to him on the couch, taking his hand in mine. “I like you, Clint.”

He smiles, his eyes igniting, setting the gold flakes in them on fire. “I like you too, Tasha.” He bites at his lip a moment. “God, Tasha, I think you’re amazing. You’re smart and independent and funny.” He rubs at his neck. “You gave me a second chance after that disaster of a first date.”

I chuckle in time to his own laughter.

He leans in a bit, voice a little lower. “And as if that wasn’t enough, you’re spirited,” he nods to the framed signature, “thoughtful,” he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, “gorgeous.”

“Clint,” I whisper. We’re close enough now I can feel his breath on my lips. We close the distance and I feel like I’m flying. I kiss him with everything I feel, everything I’ve yet to say and somehow think he already knows. I kiss him deeper than I have any man, feeling for the first time in my life like he deserves it as much as I want it.

And then there’s a wet tongue on my cheek that I know isn’t Clint’s. “Lucky!”

Clint gently pushes the dog off the couch, rubbing at his ears but smiling up at me. “Want to hang this bad boy up?” he asks, indicating the framed signature.

I nod and kiss him again.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well you survived it. I hope you enjoyed at least some of it. :)   
> Let me know what you thought. 
> 
> \- Z-Socks


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